It Won't Hurt a Bit

by Jane Yeadon

  ‘I don’t know. A crowd around me makes the place feel more alive. Until Jane arrived, I thought I was stuck on this floor on my own, but now I’m beginning to feel it’s quite cosy here.’

  ‘Well it’s maybe ok for you – you’re much older, but it’s not like my own wee bedroom at home.’ Two fat tears rolled down Rosie’s cheeks. ‘Och I’m sorry but I’ve never been away from home like this and I just can’t help thinking how much my dog, Mam and Dad will be missing me and I know I don’t live so far away as Morag or even Jane, but – o-o-oh.’ Rosie was lost to grief.

  We exchanged glances. We hadn’t expected this and for a moment there was an uncomfortable silence. I wondered if it might set off Morag but she was already on her feet and taking charge.

  Earning her place as the first caring angel, if not in heaven, at least in the locality, she said, ‘You were quite right, Rosie. What we need is a nice cup of tea so why don’t you come with me and help me make it. Come on and, look, here’s a tissue.’

  10

  A LEARNING CURVE

  We might have one cherub and one kindly angel in our group but that didn’t count for much in the eyes of Miss Jones.

  God may well have started as a medical student and with diligence become a doctor, shedding that title on his surgical way to becoming a Mr and eventually jettisoning that for the top job, but Sister Tutors had also taken a difficult route to power. From humble student nurse origins, they qualified to become staff nurses, onwards to ward sisters, then finally back to their original titles but now in charge of nursing destinies.

  So, and on God’s behalf, Miss Jones and Mrs Low, a double act running the Preliminary Training School, were about to rule our universe: Mrs Low by saintliness, Miss Jones by quite another method.

  Blessed in ignorance, we hung about the classroom, our first day chat enlivening the dull chalk-laden surroundings and making connections with the rest of the students. Isobel, idly manicuring her nails, was already seated whilst Rosie set about organising the rest of us.

  Maisie, ignoring the traffic control signals, chose her own spot. ‘This is like school. I’ve always to be near the front so that I can see the blackboard.’ She drummed her fingers on her desk and looked about her. ‘I wonder where the tutors have got to.’

  As if on cue, a tall angular figure in bottle green strode into the classroom. ‘Quiet!’

  In a missile sort of way, she was impressive.

  I hid behind Sheila whilst the rest scuttled to the nearest desk and Isobel put away her nail file.

  ‘Since you’re new, you might not appreciate how noise carries, but do you realise night staff might be trying to sleep? I could hear you miles away. This class is smaller than usual so I wasn’t expecting it to be twice as noisy.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘I just hope its mind doesn’t match its size. I don’t want a racket like this again. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Miss – er –’

  ‘Jones!’ It came like a battle cry.

  ‘I’m your tutor for anatomy and physiology and by the end of three months, I’ll have hopefully instilled in you all there is to know about the human body so that by the time you go into the wards you should at least know how it works properly. Of course and so that I know I’m doing the job properly and you’ve been listening, there’ll be the weekly tests to check your progress. The exam at the end of P.T.S. will prove both your and my worth.’ Her smile was mirthless as she raised her eyebrows. ‘Now! Has anybody any questions?’

  Jo raised her hand. ‘What happens if we fail?’

  ‘That’s it.’ The tone was final. ‘The first three months are crucial and allow us to see if you really are committed, and don’t forget, we’ll be looking at your practical work as well. There’s no point in time being wasted either for you or for us. Nursing is a profession that isn’t worth doing unless it’s taken seriously.’

  Apart from the minute niggling sound of Morag worrying her fingers, you could have heard a pin drop.

  ‘Of course, there is the option of a repeat P.T.S.,’ the tutor said, moving towards a tall thin cupboard. She smoothed her hands on its handle. ‘But we’d have to think about that very carefully because there’s a lot of new recruits eager to take your place. Right! Let’s get started right away.’ She opened the door. ‘This morning, I want you to meet a colleague of mine.’ In a smooth movement, she pulled out a skeleton hanging from an extending rail so that it dangled before us like a puppet.

  ‘Meet Skellie,’ she said and stroked, twiddled and twirled its long dead bits.

  Maisie screamed and Sheila cried, ‘Ma Gode!’

  I had never envisaged a real corpse for educational purposes but Sheila with her ashen face closely resembled one. She slumped over her desk whilst we craned forward to get a better view. This was some lecture.

  Miss Jones was unperturbed. ‘Dear, dear, I shudder for the profession if this is what’s likely to happen. So what do you think we should do, girl behind the body please?’

  I got up slowly, adjusted Sheila’s scarf, fiddled tentatively with her neck buttons and hopped on one leg by way of diversion.

  With a sigh of exasperation, the tutor strode over and laid the patient on the floor with a gentle ease.

  ‘You put an unconscious patient like so, and her legs like so. We call it the Sims’ position. If she’s put like this, she won’t choke. Just take a note of that will you? I hadn’t expected to use the term so soon but you’ll meet it often enough when you’re in the wards. And remember that the patient’s dignity must be maintained as much as possible. I don’t suppose this patient really wants to be like this.’ The hand movements were quick, sure and practised. Sheila’s suspenders were hardly affected and the ‘A Present From Inverurie’ emblazoned on her knickers surely a figment of the imagination. She looked so comfortable we quite envied her, especially as it was hard not to join in Rosie’s fit of nervous giggles. Laughing might be a health hazard.

  Maisie had been despatched for a drink of water or a breath of fresh air, whichever got rid of her quickest, and when she returned still ashen-faced but spectacles glinting with renewed health, she was in time for Sheila’s recovery.

  ‘Ah gott an affa fright. Naebody expects skeletons tae cam poppin oot like that. Weel, nay in Inverurie ony road.’ She got up slowly, shaking her head as if to check the contents, hair remaining in concrete. ‘Fit next?’

  ‘Ok? Right!’

  Treating Sheila’s faint as mere detail, Miss Jones surged on. She held up a plastic model of something you might order from the butcher. ‘Everybody listening? Let’s move on shall we? We’ll be finding out about the liver and the heart of course. I know you’ll find them quite fascinating.’ Her teeth, reminiscent of the Home’s yellowing piano keys, flashed as she delved into a drawer, its contents rattling like dice. Then she lifted out a heart, which opened like a joke apple. ‘Marvellous realism here, Nurses, I thoroughly recommend you use it when studying.’ She smoothed over the plastic as if it needed a polish.

  ‘I might eat it,’ said brave Jo.

  To our surprise, Miss Jones laughed, lightening the classroom atmosphere a little. Still, the coffee break came as a relief.

  We gathered in an adjoining room to discuss survival prospects.

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past that wifie to do open heart surgery just for a laugh,’ said Rosie, looking around nervously.

  ‘Yes, Sheila, you were lucky to come round when you did. You might have woken up with a plastic one,’ Hazel laughed.

  Isobel shrugged elegantly. ‘Well, we can’t say it’s been a dull morning. I haven’t felt so alert since putting the kitchen on fire in the nursing home where I used to work.’

  ‘How did you manage that?’ Fire raising had not occurred to us as a way of entertainment.

  ‘I found a quickie way to do a poultice by grilling it, but I wouldn’t recommend it. It can set off the fire alarm and ruins the taste of toast.’

  One of the girls chuckled and patted her pocket. ‘Talking
of fire, I’m dying for a fag. Anyone coming out for a breath of fresh air?’

  ‘For goodness sake! We haven’t time!’ Rosie tapped on her watch. ‘We don’t want to get on the wrong side of Miss Jones.’

  ‘Yeah – I’ll come,’ Maisie said. ‘I think my head’ll burst if I don’t and don’t worry, Rosie, we’ll be back for the next execution.’

  ‘On your own head be it.’

  Morag pursed her lips looking like a conscientious secretary. ‘Well I’m going back. I’ve already missed half of the stuff she was saying. She’s going so fast I’m worried I can’t keep up with my notes. If I go back now I’ll get a chance to catch up.’

  I said, ‘Notes? Crikey! I was so taken aback by her introductory spiel I never thought to put anything down. Let’s have a shufti at what you’ve written.’

  We sped back and were surprised to find that the sun had broken out with Miss Jones replaced by a tutor who sounded genuinely welcoming. ‘Ah! There you are, Nurses, come and take your seats please. Have you had a nice break?’ She had grey curly hair, a motherly way and a smile like the stir mark left on thick custard.

  ‘I’m Mrs Low and delighted to be your practical work instructor. I know we are going to enjoy these three months together and that you will leave here able to take your places as caring representatives of this P.T.S. That is of paramount importance.’ She clasped her comfortable bosom and looked upward with such sincerity she should have been accompanied by a burst from a heavenly choir.

  ‘Now our first practical lesson is,’ her inhalation could have hoovered up the dust particles dancing round her halo, ‘how to properly fill a hot water bottle. Yes! A hot water bottle! It is of paramount importance,’ a waggish finger waved, ‘that we learn to do the simple things well. We can then proceed. We shall do this in the practical procedure room. If you would follow me please.’

  ‘This is heavy stuff,’ grumbled Jo, as we cheeped light discontent in the tutor’s comfortable wake. ‘My brain’s going to burst with the challenge. Still, she’s a friendly old soul. I wouldn’t like to upset her.’

  The other classroom was large, light and full of draughts, with a life-size doll in a state of advanced decline in the hospital bed placed centre stage. There were cupboards, sinks and enough trolleys to mobilise the entire caring concept. For the patient’s view, long poorly-fitted windows gave out onto seagulls tap dancing for worms on an unbroken length of stunted anaemic-looking grass. Somewhere in the distance, the city grumbled, its moans carried by a chilly wind through the windows and demanding a presence in the room. It wasn’t the best prospect for a patient exposed to the care of a novice army.

  Mrs Low gathered us round the bed.

  ‘I want you to pay close attention to my technique. It is of paramount importance,’ Maisie dug me in the ribs, ‘that you tell the patient what you are about to do, otherwise they can get an awful fright. I know this personally.’ She put her hand on her heart and rolled her eyes with the drama of a prima donna. ‘You see, Nurses, I was once a patient and had to have my appendix out. As soon as I was admitted, a nurse came to my bedside with a razor. In my anxious state I thought she was going to do the operation right there and then.’ She winced at the recall, then, ‘You see, Nurses, she didn’t explain.’

  ‘So what did she want to do?’ asked Isobel.

  Mrs Low’s look was as sharp as the alleged razor, but Isobel’s look of dedicated interest sent the tutor on a mission to explain about cleanliness and how being shaved from stem to stern guaranteed hygiene for an operation.

  ‘And six months stubbly discomfort,’ murmured Isobel, lips fixed and looking dreamy.

  Still, Mrs Low’s lecture was long enough to stop anyone wanting to hear more. There were no further questions.

  Our tutor now advanced upon the dummy, face aglow and arms outstretched.

  ‘Good Morning, Mrs Brown. I hear your hot water bottle’s cold. Now I know it’s not easy for you to move, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just get it out for you. I think it’s under the bedclothes somewhere.’

  We watched, becoming interested, as she prepared to climb aboard whilst Rosie went red and searched for her hanky.

  Mrs Brown, plainly overcome by the exertions of her carer foraging, clucking and explaining, flopped drunkenly to the side.

  Jo frowned at Rosie who was having some difficulty in breathing. Meanwhile, the rest of us were mesmerised by the sight of Mrs Low’s sturdy calves and the sound of her voice muffled under the blankets.

  ‘Goodness me, Mrs Brown, I think you must be hiding it!’

  When all but the tutor’s heels had disappeared Isobel gave a gentle cough. ‘Excuse me, but is this what you’re looking for?’ She pointed to a bottle lying on a table beside the sink.

  ‘And doesn’t this just prove how important it is to have a real dialogue with your patients? Listen, listen and listen!’ Not missing a beat, Mrs Low emerged, fixing her cap in a composed way and beaming at her patient. ‘Isn’t that so, Mrs Brown?’

  We looked again at the dummy and thought Mrs Low should spend more time with real people, especially as we now had to emulate her demonstration. Under her dedicated eye, we explained, we listened, oh how we listened and filled the hot water bottle as a water-play bonus. Time tripped by, and we got wet and bored enough to stop pretending our patient was capable of dialogue.

  ‘You will have a written examination on this on Friday just so that I’m quite sure you understand this procedure.’ Mrs Low momentarily sounded as fierce as Miss Jones. ‘So you see it is important to concentrate.’ Then she smiled and normal service was restored. ‘But I can see you’ve all been working very hard and with a little diligence you will manage very nicely. I think you’ve earned your break.’

  As she left the classroom, Isobel stretched and, waving her fingers to the ceiling, sighed, ‘This could be a long week.’

  She was right, for, whilst Miss Jones filled the days juggling, levering and raining anatomical wonders up to a bilious point, Mrs Low continued to smile and radiate benevolence and paramount importance. Subjected to so much care, Mrs Brown seemed to have uncooperatively aged decades and begun to leak stuffing. Morag agonised over every move and filled reams of paper in her neat handwriting, but as I had filled a few hot water bottles in my time, I figured a question on Mrs Brown’s one would be a doddle.

  I wondered what I should wear to Beth’s party.

  ‘Are you nervous about tomorrow’s exam?’ Bored in the evening with bedroom and study, I went next door where Maisie was lying on her bed surrounded by a pile of books with her eyes shut and the occasional twirls of her mules to indicate life.

  ‘I’m sick to death of Mrs Brown, our tutors and the great and good works of the kidney.’ Maisie, reaching out for her spectacles, knocked over her bible. ‘Damn!’ She swung her legs over the side. ‘Tell you what, Jane, I really fancy going to the pictures. Fancy coming?’

  ‘Great idea. What about the others?’

  ‘Let’s just go,’ Maisie was already up and throwing on outdoor clothes, ‘otherwise Rosie will turn it into a military manoeuvre and I don’t want to be marched into town.’ She thought for a moment then bobbed her curls. Cheerful as they might look, they were also signs of determination. ‘Why don’t we take the lift? Then we’ll avoid seeing anybody and having to explain where we’re going.’

  ‘Do you think we should?’ I was doubtful. I hated that lift but didn’t want to appear soft in front of a worldly twenty-one-year-old fae Peterheid.

  ‘Honestly, they treat us like kids around here.’ Maisie applying lipstick like a guided missile caught my worried look in the mirror. ‘What’s the big deal about this lift? Anyway, I wouldn’t put it past Rosie to be out patrolling her floor and I for one think we all need a break from each other.’

  ‘What about Morag then? She’s in a permanent state of anxiety. When she hasn’t got her nose in a textbook, she’s down at the kiosks with her ear to a phone. I think she’s really homesick and we sh
ould ask her. We’re supposed to be learning to be members of a caring profession. We could practise on her.’

  ‘Ok. Just go and see if you can find a whole pair of stockings and get your coat.’ She blew herself a kiss in the mirror. ‘We’ll just nip into the lift and go down to her floor.’

  Like burglars, we stole along the corridor and pressed the lift button as if it were red hot. Slowly, like a wakening monster, it creaked into view.

  ‘Sshh!’ I covered my ears whilst Maisie opened the gate then, as soon as we stepped in, crashed it shut. ‘Quick! Turn off the lights – we don’t want to be seen.’ I screwed my eyes shut in case throwing the switch light off hadn’t worked.

  The descent was painfully slow.

  ‘We’d have been quicker taking the stairs,’ I grumbled, ‘and why are we stopping here anyway?’

  ‘Because I’ve pressed the stop button,’ said Sister Cameron glaring through the latticed ironworks at us. ‘The pair of you. Get out, now!’

  11

  EXAMS AND PLANS

  ‘We’ve just had an awful row.’

  Apart from a framed photograph of a tweedy-looking guy on her bedside table, every other surface in Morag’s room was covered with handwritten notes and books whilst bean-shaped illustrations enlivened the walls. Instead of the dreaded suit hanging like a repressed clerkess on the back of a chair, Morag had changed into an Ovalteeny in her flannelette pyjamas.

  It wasn’t easy finding room to sit and, plainly getting ready for bed, she looked flustered at our visit.

  ‘Crumbs! You’ve been busy.’ Maisie perched one cheek on the side of the bed. ‘We were actually coming to take you away from all this to the pictures when Sister Cameron found us in the lift and sent us packing.’

  Maisie didn’t add that, instead of going to a quiet prayer meeting she’d invented as the reason we were leaving so discreetly, we’d been roundly told to do something a little more Christian.